


Bite

by honeydewed



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: All I ship is rare pairs a sad but true statement in this world, F/M, If other people aren't writing it I will!, Ophilia/Therion - Freeform, but because of that I absolutely refuse to let this world exist without it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 13:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15438531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydewed/pseuds/honeydewed
Summary: Therion loves apples. He loves sinking his teeth into an apple but there's something else he wants to bite now too.





	Bite

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Octopath Traveler. I don't own these characters. No spoilers. Man that picture of them on the sound track killed me and inspired me so enjoy.

Sister Ophilia Clement looks like a snowflake. She's delicate and practically perfect in every conceivable way: She's kind, charitable, brave, and the loveliest girl he's ever seen. He expected someone like her to melt after leaving her snowy home, broken by the cruelty of man and made sharp like an icicle under its hardships. Yet she persists in being hopeful with the Flame by her side. It will light the wayward pilgrim's path, he supposes. He doesn't believe in that crap. Weak minded men with no belief in themselves choose to put their fate in another's hands with faith. It's bull, but he can't bring himself to say that to her. He can picture her face now. Her brow would wrinkle with worry as those pouty sermon filled lips would frown and open to protest and warn him of saying something so blasphemous. He breathes in a little too loud, it's odd for him to be so off guard around others, and warm brown eyes shift towards his half hidden face. She smiles too much for his liking like she is right now.

Lips that have probably never taste rouge or any adornment besides something to keep them from becoming too chapped part happily. She smiles so easily and so readily unto anyone who catches her attention.  _Everyone needs a smile. Sometimes a smile is the most powerful thing one might see in a day,_ her voice is a distant memory but it echoes in his ears. A messy fringe of white hides his eyes and he glances off to the side to the rest of the party. She wandered over a few minutes ago,  _You looked so lonely Mister Therion, I thought you might need some company._

He likes taverns because he can slip off to a remote corner and drink alone. Everyone's usually so busy having a fun time they don't want to keep quiet next to him. It's no skin off his nose, he's used to working alone and being swept into such a large group has put him on edge. At the very least Alfyn or Cyrus pick up the tab and he'll never snub a free drink. He doesn't expect a church girl to participate in drinking and his refuge in a quiet corner has become her own little sanctuary. 

Sister Ophilia's gloved hands busy themselves with a knife and an apple as she peels away the bright red skin. He's never seen her hands, he has to guess that they're smaller beneath the thick leather gloves. They might be as bright as the sweet fruit she's holding. The blade kisses the skin as she focuses on the shape of the fruit working with it to make something cute. However, his little disturbance stills her hands and she beams at him. 

He's glad that they're indoors otherwise he'd have to squint. 

Maybe people in Flamesgrace managed to keep warm because of Sister Ophilia's smile. A warmth he's never experienced burns bright from within and spills out into the world. Therion grunts. It's too bright for his liking. He survives in the darkness, he skulks around in the shadows, and he'd like to think he's smarter than a moth that's disarmed by a pretty light. Sister Ophilia Clement should be a frigid bitch, he muses. He can't imagine growing up in a place without warmth and turning out decent. The snow capped north may be just like the desert, one can only survive if they learn how to begrudgingly get along with one another and not back stab one another at every given moment. He's more of a mountain man, like the solitary eagles that circle the heavens and make their nests on their own to keep watch over everything.

He can't be aware of everything if she's there. She practically sparkles and takes the spotlight wherever the eight of them go. Even next to Primrose who jingles in her dancer's garb and easily takes the eyes of those around her, even next to H'annit who stands imposing and tall with a godsdamn snow leopard at her side, and certainly next to Tressa who's a mite of a girl but owns a voice that could make a barker envious. If Sister Ophilia's near then Therion can hardly keep his eyes off her. He's only seen snow a handful of times before meeting her. In the early morning light it sparkles in the sunshine and the icicles mimic the finest crystals. If Therion fancied himself a wordsmith he'd find a clever way to compare her to it.

She continues her work. Humming a hymn to herself as she sits next to a sinner like him. Dainty little ankles hidden by tall boots and a long skirt cross and she sits tall and proud. If he didn't know any better he'd think she was restrained due to the rigid way she sits. He on the other hand makes himself comfortable, legs spread and arms crossed he presses his scarf covered chin against his arms that rest on the backrest of the chair. 

"Mister Therion?" if she were anybody else he'd call her tone disingenuous and saccharine to the point of fake. There's not a beguiling bone in her body and the honeyed tone to her voice is true. There's such a sweet quality to it he's sure a kitten would be jealous of it. 

He's asked her dozens of times not to call him that but at this point he's given up. A thief knows when to cut his losses and he knows he won't will in this battle of wills. Sitting backwards in his chair he taps his fingers along the wrappings of his arms. "What is it now?" his voice cuts like one of his daggers and is as harsh as the blizzards her hometown braves. 

She's not deterred in any way. All lined up on the plate are slices of apple in the shape of rabbits. "Tada! They're rabbits!" she announces merrily. "Do you like them?" 

"You're not too bad with a knife," he can't bring himself to compliment her more than that.

Sister Ophilia practically illuminates at the "kind words". Her eyes widen as her eyebrows lift up, her smile grows wider, and she leans closer to him. Stray locks of blonde hair tumble over her shoulder and she asks, "Pray would you have one then? I'm afraid I am still quite full from eating earlier but I wouldn't mind sharing so have as many as you'd please." 

"I've never seen apples like this," he reaches out. Plucking one of the sliced apples from the plate between them on the table he lowers his scarf to bite down. Tressa has an eye for produce, the apple's delicious. 

Sister Ophilia's encouraged to speak since he's spoken to her or responded. "I used to eat apples more often before I moved to Flamesgrace. It's so cold you can only grow certain produce there so we rely on others for fruit and vegetables," she explains. "So on days we received apples I would prepare them like this for His Excellency and Lianna." Sadness coats the syllables that make up her loved ones names. She's shit at hiding how he feels, his visible eye drifts to the plate. 

"You're not eating," he takes a bite to distract her with a loud crunch. 

"Oh! You're, you're very right," shame hides her mouth behind her gloved hand. Picking up a slice she brings one of the rabbit shaped fruit slices to her lips. Pale pink lips part and she bites down on the apple. Slowly savoring the bite, she said they don't have apples too often in Flamesgrace so she's clearly savoring the treat. The crunch is slow and she beams as her lips meet each other again. Rocking forward once and then back she lifts her other hand to her cheek curling her fingers against it as her eyes shut happily. "Mmm!" she breathes out through her nose and chews. She's so godsdamn slow at eating the apple he's honestly fascinated. Biting into the apple again juice wells up on her lips before dripping down. It's a juicy apple. He swallows his own slice hard as she daintily picks up the next slice with her other hand and rubs her thumb along her lips to gather up the apple juice. "Oh dear," she laments and fumbles around for her handkerchief. It's a girly looking handkerchief. Blue with white flowers embroidered along the corners. Wiping her lips with it she bites into the apple and the same actions repeat.

She bites, ecstasy spreads across her face and begs her eyes to close, she hums happily savoring the taste, and he wants to bite something other than an apple. There's something about a woman that covers herself up from head to toe, it leaves more for the imagination. Northern girls tend to practically bathe themselves in lotions to keep their skin smooth and soft, and there's a distinct flowery scent to her in the mornings and at nights like she's made up a schedule to keep herself delicate and pleasant to touch. Despite the cloak that clings to her shoulders like a possessive lover hiding both its owner and the Flame he can see her dress when she moves her arms. The dress she wears is tight, he can hardly believe church girls are permitted to wear such tight clothing but it's like a second skin. The plain white fabric curves along her perky breasts that have to be sweeter than the fruit they're partaking in. The Flame sometimes rests along her hip, and he envies that Flame. "I love apples, don't you?" she asks. "If you'd like if Tressa procures more for us I shall prepare them like this again."

The only girls that have done things at his behest were paid to do so. "Do whatever you'd like," he shrugs. What's with it with women wanting to do things for him lately? He absently reaches for the plate and his knuckles bump against hers as they reach for the same piece. Her hand retracts like he's made of hot coals. If that were true he'd melt this little snowflake. 

"Oh, forgive me," she waves to him and picks up a different piece. He's envious of the apple in her mouth, of how happy it makes her, and that he was cheated out of feeling her hand. 

He returns the scarf to his face and stands up suddenly, "I'm going to turn in for the night."

"Of course," the shock isn't hidden on her face. She's still clinging to a piece of apple. "I must bid you goodnight then Mister Therion. Have pleasant dreams tonight." 

His eyes close. Shoulders slump and he moves past her. "Don't worry I'll make sure I'm tucked in all nice and cozy," he bumps into her chair "accidentally". 

"I shall see you in the morning then," she wishes. Therion doesn't have to look but he's certain she's smiling. 

Once Therion's outside he pauses outside the ale house on the way to the inn that's already got a room for him. Uncurling his hand he's greeted to the sight of a blue handkerchief. It's still damp from gracing Sister's Ophilia's lips. A distinct floral scent and apple coat the piece of cloth and he tucks it into one of his pockets before retiring for the evening. 

For the first time in years he actually has a pleasant dream. He dreams of the welcoming flesh of apples and the welcoming flesh of a girl that reminds him of a snowflake. 


End file.
